


Grave Mistake

by kickflaw



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickflaw/pseuds/kickflaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want me to rob a grave?” Merlin asked, appalled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grave Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2009 merlinarthurfqf prompt #79: The ghost of Arthur's creepy great, great uncle starts following Merlin around and making lewd comments. Fortunately — or unfortunately — only Merlin hears him most of the time.
> 
> Warning: Hints of BDSM kink. Some non-sexual violence (whipping).
> 
> Now [read it in Russian!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/207103)
> 
> Notes: This fic would have stalled and died if it weren’t for [ifyouweremine](http://ifyouweremine.livejournal.com/), the best hand-holder, cheerleader, soundboard and beta ever. Thanks to [thierrys](http://thierrys.livejournal.com/) for the extra review!

Grave Mistake

 _Day One_

“You want me to rob a grave?” Merlin asked, appalled.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” said Gaius. “It’s not grave-robbery. You won’t be opening the coffins, or any such nonsense. The fungus I need grows on the tomb walls.”

“But—you want me to break into the tombs! The lower tombs!” Merlin said.

Gaius handed him a hammer. “You may need this.”

Which was how Merlin ended up in the bowels of the castle, deeper even than the dungeons, shivering because it was cold and damp and creepy down here, and carrying a hammer. Some days he didn’t know which was worse: working for Gaius or working for Arthur.

The plant he was looking for, this fungus, supposedly needed dark, wet, horrible places to thrive, which was probably why Gaius had described it as, “Smallish, grey, rather like moss, and slimy to the touch.” Merlin hefted his torch and glanced around. He’d gotten into the lower tunnels, cracking open the old, rotted door with the judicious application of force and magic, and this plant had better be nearby, because he was most unhappy.

“Come on,” Merlin muttered, and then spotted it a little ways down, a patch of murky grey against the otherwise black ceiling. “Yes,” he gestured and the strange growth detached from the rock and floated toward him, dripping a little. He grimaced as it curled itself into the small pouch he’d brought.

Gaius owed him for this.

*

Merlin snapped awake, sitting up so fast his vision went white. There had been—screaming, like someone was in agony, like he’d never heard before. His dreams—he rubbed a tired hand over his face—they were not usually that terrible. He couldn’t remember the details, everything fading into vague blurs. Gaius had been eating cheese, and Arthur’s face, tight with fury—

“I thought that might wake you,” a voice said. “You sleep like the dead, you know. Haha! The dead. Get it?”

Merlin peered into the darkness, “Uh, hello?”

“It’s a pun, of course. No, no, you can’t see me, I don’t think. Hoy, I’m standing next to this…cabinet thing. With the open drawers. In the light.”

Merlin looked at his wardrobe. Though the moonlight was weak, he could see no one, only a shirt draped over one open cupboard door.

This was not, however, a new situation for him, hearing an incorporeal voice in the middle of the night that no one else could hear.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” he demanded.

“Well, of course it’s me. I am me. Though, I wonder that you would know who I—”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’d fall for that? I don’t know what you’re planning, but you won’t win. I won’t be a pawn anymore.”

With that, he pulled his meager blankets up over his ears and resolutely ignored the Dragon’s pathetic attempts at…whatever it wanted, until it gave up or lost interest and he was able to fall back to sleep in the ensuing quiet.

*

 _Day Two_

“So I assume you must hear disembodied voices often, to be so nonchalant about my sudden appearance. Are you afflicted with a mental condition, boy?” said the Dragon the next morning.

Merlin refused to respond, eating his porridge instead. Gaius didn’t bother him for conversation, thankfully, because he was sullen and tired and he just wanted this whole week to be over so Arthur could come home from his stupid border review. Everyone was stressed and busy, waiting on a blade’s edge for further news of the disputes with Strathclyde. Merlin had only Gaius’s assignments to attend to, so he had the double pleasure of being anxious and bored, and now he had the Dragon providing a running commentary in the background.

“You know, you should really alternate clockwise and anti-clockwise stirring,” it said as he kept watch over a bubbling green tonic.

“Slow down! For the gods’ sakes, boy, do you want to break your sodding neck? These stairs are steep,” it said as he hurried to bring the bruise poultices out to the training knights.

“Ohhhh, and then Bridget, she said to me, won’t you take me by the sea—” it sang as he mopped the floor where Gaius had knocked over a draft of cider.

“Do you really eat this glop every day? I’ve seen better food fed to pigs,” it said as he served himself another bowl of Gaius’s ever-present pot of gruel.

“Gaius,” Merlin said finally, desperately, “Do you have a—is there a, sort of, you know, thing, that might—? What I mean is—”

“Spit it out, Merlin,” said Gaius, turning another page. Gaius looked exhausted, too long spent futilely searching for new ways to help Morgana sleep at night, something without the taint of magic. She drifted more than walked these days, eyes bruised.

“Never mind,” Merlin said, and handed him the bowl of porridge. “Here, have something to eat. Can I help at all?”

Gaius gestured at a sheaf of papers near his elbow. “Look there, see if you can find anything about induced comas. Thanks.” He smiled briefly, gathering a large spoonful with scary relish.

“That was kind,” the Dragon said softly.

Merlin pulled the old parchment close and began to read.

*

“I know what you’re doing,” Merlin said late that night, after the last candles had been put out and he stretched comfortably in his bed. “You want to drive me mad.”

“Boy, if I wanted to drive you mad, I’d be singing much different songs,” said the Dragon.

*

 _Day Three_

“Gwen!” Merlin called, rushing around the corner he’d seen her turn just moments ago, “Gwen—whoops!”

“Smooth,” the Dragon said.

“Merlin,” said Gwen, smiling as he hastily picked up the bed linens he’d knocked from her basket when he’d collided with her. “What is it?”

“I just haven’t seen you in a few days.” Merlin attempted to refold the mess in his arms without much success. “How are you? How are—things?”

Gwen shook her head. “No different.”

“Oh.”

“It hasn’t worsened,” she said optimistically. “Sometimes she manages three or four hours without so much as a twitch. Well, she twitches, of course, but you know what—Merlin, let me do that.”

Merlin allowed her to trade her basket for his armful of sheets. “And how are you?” he asked again.

“I’m fine.” Gwen concentrated on expertly folding the pile of cloth and tucking it back into her basket.

Merlin raised an eyebrow when she finally looked up at him.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “Really, Merlin.”

“All right,” he said, but dodged when she reached to take her basket back. “Ah, ah! Let me carry this up for you.”

“Merlin.”

“Gwen.”

Her smile was the best thing that had happened to him in days, so of course the Dragon had to ruin it by singing, “You like her! You like her! Merlin likes Gwen!” during their entire trek up to Morgana’s rooms.

*

"So, are you two having it on, then?” the Dragon was still pressing, later.

“No!” Merlin said, because he couldn’t take it anymore, and at least no one would hear him argue with thin air in the middle of the forest, collecting Gaius’s ingredients.

“Aha! He replies!”

“Please, please,” Merlin never thought he’d see the day he was reduced to open begging, “shut up. Just for a little while, shut up!”

“Not now that I finally have you talking. Is she a good tumble? She looks a little too maidenly to be much fun but one never—”

“Don’t talk about Gwen that way!”

The Dragon’s voice seemed to shift, drifting from Merlin’s left, “It’s more than pleasure, then. Well, if you’ve plans to wed the girl, best tup her first. It’s always best to know if a woman’s fertile before committing.”

“You—” Merlin raged, crushing a sprig of rosemary in his fist, “you beastly, disgusting—beast! I’m not going to going to, to marry Gwen, and I’m most certainly not going to take her for a tumble! She’s my friend!”

“You must be tumbling someone, boy,” the Dragon said. “What’s life worth without bed pleasures? Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out.”

Merlin decided that his original plan had worked better: replying only encouraged the damn thing.

*

But damage had already been done.

“That one?” the Dragon asked. How it expected Merlin to know which one it meant was beyond him, as it wasn’t bodily present and therefore unable to indicate. There were plenty of serving maids in the kitchens.

“That one,” it said, “that one! Over there, with the lovely red hair. Haha, that rhymes.”

Merlin rolled his eyes and wondered if extended imprisonment hadn’t driven the creature as mad as it intended to drive him.

“Or that one, she’s quite delicious, look at her heaving bosom, her plump waist.” Its voice was more than admiring, and Merlin forced himself not to watch as Bevan rolled the dough for tomorrow’s bread. He was here to fetch more cider for Gaius, not ogle the head baker’s (admittedly well-endowed) sister.

In the seamstresses’ chambers, where Merlin dropped off his trousers to be mended, it asked if he’d bedded either Clovis or Myrna. In the laundry rooms, it suggested most lewdly how easy it would be to trip Edsel into the large barrel of water, just to see how her thin, white bodice would look nearly transparent. In his bedroom, it offered to leave him alone for a while so he could 'work off the stress of being around so many beautiful women,' but he knew it was lying; it wasn’t actually there at all.

He went to bed more frustrated than he’d ever been in his life.

*

 _Day Four_

“I figured it out!” the Dragon announced the next morning, over breakfast. “You’re a virgin!”

Merlin choked on his bread so badly that Gaius had to step away from his research to pound his back. “I am not!” he said, coughing.

“What?” Gaius said.

“Yes you are!” said the Dragon. “Or you’re a queer. Then again, I suppose you could be both queer and a virgin.”

Merlin flushed, he couldn’t stop himself; his face was a horrible, uncontrollable flushing thing.

“Are you all right, Merlin?” Gaius asked.

“You’re a queer virgin?! I can’t believe it! Actually, I can, which is even sadder.”

“I have to go do,” said Merlin, “you know, chores, or something. What chores are there?”

Gaius gave him a suspicious look, but instructed him to make the daily deliveries without further comment. Merlin grabbed the basket of medicines and headed out gratefully.

“You would enjoy that, really?” the Dragon said, “You would enjoy tumbling other men?”

Merlin stumbled a bit as he crossed the courtyard.

“How about having a cock in your mouth?”

Merlin walked into a guard, who looked at him as if he were simple and shoved him away.

“I always wondered, you know, if those pretty boys who were so quick to kneel truly took pleasure in the act, or if they were all just pretending. I mean, it’s all well and good if you’re the one getting your cock sucked—”

Merlin couldn’t pay attention to this, it was all too insane. He just needed to focus on getting up the stairs without incident.

“Then again you wouldn’t know, would you? Being a virgin and all. But you’ve thought about it.”

Merlin stepped into an alcove that housed a wide-open window and set the basket on the ledge, taking deep breaths. The Dragon was wrong: these were things he tried to never, ever let himself consider, and to have them voiced so blithely—he ran both hands over his face and leaned against the window frame. The warm summer air was stifling, no breeze at all.

“How about,” the Dragon’s voice was awfully close, “a cock up your arse, eh? I think that would be most unpleasant, but I’ve been told that it can feel like heaven itself. Is that what you think about when you need a pull? I’ve always been unclear on this queer business. Who would really want a cock thrusting up inside him, the hole is so small.”

The image struck Merlin like the flat of a blade, and he twitched hard, his elbow jerking out, hitting his delivery basket. He watched in dismay as it fell out the open window. A whole day’s worth of medicine, spilled on the cobblestones, all those precious glass vials, Gaius would be so—

“Your Majesty!” the steward exclaimed from the courtyard.

Merlin, fool that he was, stuck his head out the window, only to see the King covered with greenish liquid and holding a hand to his head, looking back.

“You!” Uther bellowed.

“I hate you,” Merlin said.

The Dragon laughed.

*

If the throne room was not a place Merlin liked on a good day, he had no words for how miserable it was right now, with Uther glaring at Merlin like he was about to be the scapegoat for more than just his typical clumsiness.

“Sire,” Merlin flailed a little, “it was an accident, I was just—”

“Standing around uselessly while you had deliveries to be making?” said Uther.

“Not uselessly! I’m certain there was some kind of use—”

“Yes, the kind that ends up concussing your King,” Uther interrupted. The red welt on his temple didn’t look bad enough to have concussed him, in Merlin’s opinion. “The stocks don’t seem to be doing much to curb your carelessness and insolence. It seems a stronger form of punishment must be employed. A night in the dungeon, then a whipping, I think. Guards, take him.”

Merlin gaped as he was escorted out, stunned. If Arthur were here…

But he wasn’t.

*

Uther turned to a page once his son’s manservant had been removed from the room. “Tell Garrick I ordered fives lashes only, and with a weak arm. No call to worsen his mental condition—for some reason my son is strangely attached to the boy.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

*

The hay was soft and new, at least. Merlin sat against a wall, curled his arms around his knees, and scowled at the cell bars. It was hardly noon, he certainly couldn’t sleep yet. The guards had thrown him down and retreated back to their dicing; they wouldn’t hear him.

“I see your intent now,” Merlin said, hands clenching on his knees. “If you can’t use me, you must dispose of me, and since you can’t do it yourself, being locked under the castle like the monster you are, you’ll contrive to have me do it to myself.”

“Monster!” the Dragon said, indignant—then repeated, “Locked under the castle?”

Merlin enjoyed blessed, blessed silence for the first time in days. His thoughts, unfortunately, were not so peaceful.

*

 _Day Five_

In the early, dark hours of the morning, the Dragon spoke again. “You think I’m a dragon!?”

“Mm, what?” said Merlin, groggy.

“A dragon!” the Dragon said, “You believe I’m a dragon! Of all the preposterous—I can’t even begin to—I mean, it’s slightly complimentary, a dragon and all, but really—”

“Please shut up, please, please, please?” Merlin said, pride crumbling under the weight of exhaustion and impending pain. He was not looking forward to that whipping.

“I,” the Dragon said, all arrogance and affront, “am not a dragon.”

"Then what are you?” Merlin snapped. He sat up and rubbed a hand through his unwashed hair, pulling bits of hay out.

“A ghost, of course. The ghost of Blaise Afton, Lord of Enslow, Great Uncle of the King, Uther Pendragon, and once the mightiest wizard in the lands of Camelot.”

Merlin blinked. “Oh.”

“A dragon,” scoffed Blaise. “You really are addled, boy.”

“In my defense,” Merlin said, “the Dragon did start speaking to me my first night in the castle. Disembodied voice, like yours. I think it was quite a fair assumption.”

“Pah! Such powerful magic you possess, but so little intellect. Anyone with half a brain would have gathered immediately that I was a different entity entirely. What, have you no training in the sensing of ethereal beings? Also, I don’t speak in nonsensical riddles.”

Merlin had to concede that the ghost—Blaise—had a point. He didn’t sound anything at all like the Dragon. “Magic is forbidden in Camelot,” he said.

“What?!” Blaise said.

Merlin had many things to explain after that.

*

The guards who manhandled Merlin out of his cell seemed fairly apologetic about the whole affair, actually. Merlin watched Garrick tug the whip through his hands indecisively as he was stripped of his shirt.

“The pole,” Garrick said finally.

Merlin sighed in relief. If it had to be a whipping, better the pole than the hanging shackles; this way he had something to brace himself against. He breathed in the comforting smell of old wood while the guards secured his wrists with soft rope. There was no sunlight, but if he focused on the candlelight wavering on the stone wall, he could—

“Brace yourself, boy,” Garrick said, and struck. “One.”

Really, Merlin thought, as a hot, stinging line bloomed next to his spine, it wasn’t as terrible as he’d heard it to be. Terrible, yes—the second strike had him clenching his muscles, pulled as close to the pole as he could get—but not unendurable. He swallowed a cry as the third strike lashed across the other two, wrapping around his midsection. The fourth hit caught him across the upper back and pain burst fiercely where the whip had coiled over the delicate skin between his shoulder and neck. Eyes closed, he bore the last strike with his teeth in his lower lip and white knuckles.

“Five,” Garrick said.

Merlin almost smiled as the guards untied him and helped him to a bench; he hadn’t made a sound.

*

“Merlin,” Gaius sighed when Merlin dragged himself into their chambers just after breakfast. The physician already had a bottle of salve open in his hand, and had saved him a cold morning sandwich.

“I know,” said Merlin, gratefully letting Gaius help tug his bloody shirt off. He pulled his plate forward and ate while Gaius applied the healing poultice. Blaise, oddly enough, had not spoken since the conclusion of their conversation near dawn. Perhaps the ghost was leaving off out of sympathy, but that was probably too much to ask. Probably he was off cooking up some new mischief, figuring out what to tease Merlin about next.

“Best leave these un-bandaged for at least a day,” said Gaius. “The air will help them heal faster.”

“Right,” Merlin said. “Gaius, what do you know about ghosts?”

“Ghosts? Why?”

“Yes, why, Merlin?” Blaise asked.

“Oh, uh. Because—” Merlin floundered, “because I was wondering how I might—I mean, that is. How would someone send one back? To, you know, where they belong. Or whatever.”

“Back?” Blaise said.

“It would depend on how someone woke the ghost up,” said Gaius. “Merlin, is there something you’re not telling me?”

No, Merlin couldn’t look, because Gaius had that tone that meant he was using his eyebrow, and Merlin was already weak and tired and in pain, there was no way he could resist the eyebrow right now.

“No, of course not.” Merlin laughed nervously. “May I go lie down now? Because I am in quite a lot of pain, and I think I deserve a good lie down.”

“Merlin—” Blaise and Gaius said simultaneously.

“Thanks, Gaius!” Merlin said, and quickly stood to make good his escape. He immediately regretted it, the motion spiking pain through him—weren’t those poultices supposed to relieve pain? Still, he managed to lurch towards his room without fainting and without succumbing to Gaius’s eyebrow. “See you later,” he called, closing the door.

“Merlin,” Blaise began again as soon as the latch was set. “If you want me to leave you alone, just say so, no need to be so covert about it.”

“Sure, because that worked,” Merlin said, carefully sliding stomach-first into his bed. “Don’t you want to go back?”

“Frankly, I don’t remember very clearly anymore what it was like,” said Blaise. “The memories are blurry, and getting worse the longer I remain in this realm. I think…peaceful and lovely and quiet, but boring also. I suppose it is where I belong, though. Balance of the universe and all that. The Dragon—”

“Please, can we not talk about the Dragon?” As if this day weren’t bad enough already.

“Fine, I understand you have some nonsensical vendetta against the poor beast,” Blaise said reproachfully—indignant, Merlin almost leapt to his feet, but stopped himself before the pain rose again; never let it be said that he was not a fast learner— “but it did seem very insistent that I make my way back to Avalon.”

“Right,” said Merlin, “guess we’d better figure out how you woke up.”

“Well, that’s obvious enough, boy. You woke me up doing magic in my tomb.”

“The fungus,” Merlin said. He’d known no good could come from traipsing down in the tombs.

*

 _Day Six_

It was late afternoon and Merlin was hunched over a book, researching, when Arthur stormed into Gaius’s workroom.

“Merlin!” said Arthur, frowning.

“Sire,” Gaius said in that way he had that meant he was chiding Arthur for his rude entrance without actually stepping out of turn to speak reproachfully to a member of the royal family. Merlin wished he could do that, as it had the effect of stopping Arthur in his tracks. “Welcome home.”

“Ah, so this is the prince,” Blaise sounded intrigued. “Handsome fellow. Takes after me, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes,” Merlin ignored the ghost, and smiled, hoping to deter Arthur from whatever snit he’d worked himself into this time, “welcome home. How was the patrol?”

It seemed to work well enough because Arthur looked at him for a long, wordless, odd sort of moment before answering, more calmly, “Fine. The Northern borders are doing quite well, despite the skirmishes. They should have the harvest in on time.”

The information didn’t mean much to Merlin, so he just smiled some more, until Arthur cleared his throat and continued, “You weren’t waiting in my chambers. Guinevere said that you had taken ill?”

“Oh! Yes.” Merlin faked a weak cough into his hand.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him, and Merlin’s eyes slid to Gaius, silently begging for support. They had discussed this, and Gaius had agreed to the charade, even though he had fully expressed that he thought it was a bad idea.

“Just a summer cold, sire,” Gaius said. “A little rest is all that’s needed. He should be back to his feet in another day, no more.”

“Leave it to you to get a summer cold, Merlin,” said Arthur, snorting in disdain, though his eyes lingered.

Merlin shrugged, then winced as his back twinged. A day’s worth of rest and ointment had gone a long way to alleviating the worst of the pain, but it would take much more before he was fully healed. He just hoped they could somehow keep it from Arthur in the meantime. “Sorry?”

“I’ll expect you back to work two mornings hence,” Arthur said. “And that means the morning after next, Merlin, not sometime next week. Understand?”

"Yes, sire," Merlin grumbled.

*

“It says here that I just have to reverse or release the original magic that woke you,” Merlin said, squinting by candlelight. It was fortunate that Gaius was a heavy sleeper, because if he caught Merlin with one of his ‘carefully hidden’ books of necromancy, the whipping would seem like a day in the stocks.

“Easily done,” Blaise said, “What spell did you cast to retrieve the fungus?”

“I didn’t use a spell,” said Merlin, morbidly perusing a graphic depiction of what a sorcerer might do with a member of the undead.

“What?”

“I just,” Merlin gestured, “and it came.” Armies, he thought in vague horror, whole armies.

“What?” Blaise said again, sounding agitated.

Merlin looked away from the book, and asked in an entirely different tone, “What?”

“You just waved at it and it came?” Blaise demanded. “You didn’t recite any incantations?”

Merlin remembered having a similar conversation with Gaius once. “Um, yeah. Gaius says I’m special, or something.”

Blaise was silent for long moment before saying, “I remember…something, from my time in Avalon. Some sort of…whispering about…” he trailed off.

“Blaise?”

“Never mind,” the ghost said, “Puts something of a damper on our chances of reversing what you did, then.”

“Maybe if I just,” Merlin gestured once more, more emphatically this time, “again, it’ll work, yeah?”

“Maybe,” Blaise said skeptically.

*

 _Day Seven_

Gesturing at the tomb did not work.

*

 _Day Eight_

Merlin spent the day of his return to Arthur’s service mostly avoiding Arthur’s service. His back was doing quite well, according to Gaius, and the pain was down to easily manageable levels, so he busied himself with the tasks that didn’t involve seeing Arthur, like polishing the prince’s swords.

Blaise spent the day following him around, unfortunately regressing back to lewd commentary around the time Merlin got out the polishing oil. He didn’t seem upset by Merlin’s failure to return him to the grave, going so far as to suggest that he didn’t mind hanging around for a good deal longer.

Over Merlin’s dead body.

But he couldn’t side-step Arthur all day, and eventually a very anxious page caught up with him and relayed the unsurprising information that the Prince wanted him in his chambers immediately. Merlin sighed and set aside the herbs he was bundling.

“Immediately,” Blaise said, as Merlin made his way through the castle. “In his chambers. You know what that means.”

“It means that he’s a prat who can’t pour his own dinner wine. Shut up,” Merlin whispered, “please, not around Arthur. Please.”

“Why ever not? Oho! Do you like him, Merlin? Does our handsome prince get your knickers all wet?”

And that’s when Merlin knew it was going to be a bad night.

“Arthur,” he said, opening the heavy wooden door without knocking, “you wanted something?”

“You, on your knees,” said Blaise. Merlin, inured to most of Blaise’s crudities by now, staved off his embarrassment enough that he didn’t flush.

Arthur looked at him incredulously from his favorite chair, the one that Merlin secretly referred to as ‘the throne.’ “You must actively try to be the worst manservant ever. There’s no way this level of ineptitude is accidental.”

“The man has a point,” Blaise said.

Merlin rolled his eyes.

“My rooms are a mess, my stables are foul,” said Arthur, “my armor needs repair and cleaning, my dirty laundry has not been delivered to the laundresses, nor has my clean laundry been returned to me, my riding boots are muddied, and my wine won’t pour itself, Merlin. What did you do in my absence, other than catch a cold?”

This last part was said in a tone that Merlin couldn’t exactly place, but alarmed him anyway, somehow strained and unhappy and furious.

Instead of answering, Merlin went to the table and poured Arthur’s wine. “Sorry, Sire. I polished your swords.”

“Not the one he wants you to polish. Not the one you want to polish,” said Blaise.

“You spent all day polishing my swords?” Arthur demanded.

Blaise laughed. “No, but he’d love to, Prince. He’d love to fall to his knees first thing in the morning and take out your cock, and suck it down for breakfast, and then for lunch, and for dinner, and as a midnight snack. He’d like to spend all day polishing it with his tongue, until it shone. He’s gagging for it.”

“N-no.” Merlin swallowed hard, turning away to collect the dirty clothes.

“Then what were you doing, other than inconveniencing me?”

“When you stretch down like that, he watches your arse wiggle,” said Blaise. “He knows how badly you want him to bend you over. Would you prefer the table like a regular tart, or the bed, so he can put your legs up over his shoulders and really fill you up?”

Merlin dropped a pair of trousers and took a deep breath, but couldn’t prevent the blush from rising to his cheeks, his ears, this time. Stop, he mouthed silently, hoping that Blaise could see him. Please.

“I had many chores to do for Gaius, to catch up the days I was ill,” he said out loud.

“Yes, your illness.” Arthur’s voice was angry now, and his chair scraped the floor as he stood. “I heard about your illness.” He knew.

Merlin turned to defend himself, but the expression on Arthur’s face stopped him. Arthur looked wrecked—eyes bright with fury, hands clenched, lips thin and tight.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he said.

“I—” said Merlin, “I just didn’t—”

Arthur’s face softened slowly, something like understanding flaring in his eyes and loosening the knots of his rage, and he said, “You really are an idiot. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? My father told me himself, you know. Did you really drop an entire basket of medicine on him?”

Merlin’s laugh was more relief than humor. “Yeah.”

“Idiot,” Arthur repeated, almost fondly. “You’re all right, though?”

“You know,” Blaise said, “I think he may not be averse to fucking you, Merlin.”

“I’m fine,” Merlin said, smile turning wooden, and reached for another of Arthur’s discarded shirts.

“Really, Merlin. His inappropriate disregard for the boundaries of your relationship, his reaction to your punishment, the way he looks at you…”

Arthur frowned at him. “Are you sure? You’re breathing quickly, and you seem flushed.”

“What?” Merlin squeaked. “Of course. Just fine, perfect even, except, obviously, for the lashes, but that’s just—”

“Sit down,” Arthur said. “Let me see your back.”

“Really, Arthur—”

“He wants to see your naked flesh, and you’re protesting,” said Blaise. “It’s almost as if you’re trying to avoid losing your virginity.”

“Do it, Merlin.”

Merlin sank down on the bench, unable to shake a deep sense of foreboding. His cock was hard in his trousers and Arthur wanted him to take his shirt off. It was like a nightmare and one of those dreams woven together.

Arthur moved up behind him and plucked at the hem of his top impatiently, though his voice wavered when he commanded, “Off.”

“Think of it, boy,” Blaise said, “his hands. He’s going to put them on your bare skin.”

Hoping the pain might crowd out his arousal, Merlin yanked his shirt off more roughly than he should have. It didn’t. He heaved in another deep breath and closed his eyes; just a few minutes longer, and he could get away—

The tips of Arthur’s fingers were warm, calloused and hesitant, and Merlin couldn’t help it: he shuddered.

Arthur’s touch paused for a long, thick moment.

And then, right as Merlin was beginning to panic, Arthur touched him again, this time with more confidence, and kept going, up one weal and down another, kept touching him and Merlin shuddered uncontrollably.

“That hurts?” Arthur said. Low. Soft.

“Kind of,” said Merlin. It wasn’t really a lie, it did hurt, just not as much as it felt good.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, Merlin’s name a fraught question. Merlin could feel Arthur bent close to him, over him, presence large and hot as his fingers trailed up another welt. Pleasure and pain, at war.

“Y-yeah,” said Merlin.

“I’ll just be going, then,” Blaise muttered. “Don’t be a prude.”

“You like it?” Arthur breathed into his ear. “The pain? Is that why—”

“What?” Merlin said, “No, just—”

“What?”

“—You. Just you. I mean,” he twisted his head away from Arthur’s so-close lips, embarrassed, “I mean—”

“Stand up,” Arthur ordered, his hands gripping Merlin’s waist, tugging until Merlin obeyed, and then directing him around the table toward, oh hells, toward the bed.

“When they whipped you,” he said, and pushed Merlin up against the bedpost, “they used the pole.”

“Arthur…“ Merlin said, too aroused to protest.

Arthur lifted Merlin’s hands and wrapped them around the post, and Merlin hung on, let himself be manhandled. He didn’t know what Arthur was planning, couldn’t begin to figure it out, still overwhelmed that this was even happening, that Arthur really did want him, and more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

“Don’t let go,” said Arthur, before falling to his knees. His nose pressed into Merlin’s tailbone while he fumbled to untie Merlin’s belt, and when the tattered leather slipped free of its knot, Arthur hooked his fingers over the waist of Merlin’s trousers and pulled, as if they needed any help falling to his ankles.

“Oh,” Arthur said shakily, first palming Merlin’s arse, then sliding his hands down the backs of Merlin’s bared legs, thumbs strong along his inner thighs. Merlin twitched as Arthur placed a small kiss in the crease where his thigh met his arse. Panic spiked through him again suddenly—what if he was too bony, too skinny, and Arthur decided not to—?

But Arthur kissed that spot again, and again, and again, as he slid his hands slowly back up the front of Merlin’s legs to his knees. His fingers curved around the knobby joints and coaxed Merlin’s legs as far apart as his trousers, bunched around his boots, allowed. He didn’t seem at all put off by Merlin’s less than padded figure, if the small, intent kisses were anything to go by: kisses that were moving, upward and inward.

Merlin froze at the feel of Arthur prying his arsecheeks apart. Surely, surely not.

But—Arthur’s lips were cool on the body-hot skin between his buttocks, and insistent hands were tugging, revealing him; if Merlin weren’t already blushing ferociously, this would have done it. Hot breath brushed over the pulled-taut and vulnerable outline of Merlin’s arsehole, and he buried his face in the bed curtains, shivering.

The soft lap of Arthur’s tongue right around his arsehole made Merlin squirm and whimper in a most unmanly way, and Arthur pulled away to rest his cheek against Merlin’s arse and gasp, “I need—can I—?”

“Yes,” Merlin said.

He clung to the bed frame, grounding himself, as Arthur left him and went to shove through his cupboard for salve. If he was going to do this, if they were going to do this, he thought, he didn’t want to do it halfway. Blaise had told him not to be a prude.

“The good one is on the bottom shelf,” said Merlin, then added, “hurry, yeah?”

“Fuck,” Arthur said, and then he was behind him, his body was right against Merlin’s back, and Merlin flinched away from the new pain that caused, but all that did was push him tighter against the post, and it was just like three mornings ago, the hot burn and being bound. Merlin wondered if maybe Arthur didn’t have a point there, about liking the hurt, because it only made his cock harder, a small bit of liquid beading at the tip.

Then Arthur used one hand to pry him open again and the other to slide a slick finger inside him, and said, “Fuck, fuck, so hot,” and Merlin’s knuckles went white.

It was a strange feeling, strange but good, one Merlin had always wondered about when he’d taken his cock in hand but never actually dared to try. He arched back now, welcoming the intrusion, and when Arthur added a second finger, he moaned. Arthur panted against the nape of his neck, pushing his fingers deeper, stretching him open and ready, until he touched a spot that flooded Merlin’s vision with sparks.

“Arthur,” he said, “there, there—yeah—”

“Yeah,” said Arthur, and curled his fingers into the spot again, “You like it.”

“Yessss,” Merlin said, writhing into the pleasure.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, “let me—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Merlin said, nodding, and suddenly Arthur’s fingers were gone and there was something bigger, wider nudging at his slick hole. Merlin wheezed a curse as it (Arthur’s cock, he berated himself, think it, say it, his cock, and when the hell had Arthur taken his clothes off?) pushed into him, so big, an aching press, and trembled as it bottomed out and he felt like he was going to break open around it.

“Gods,” Arthur said into his hair. The hand holding Merlin’s arsecheeks open let go in order to fumble at his hip, and Arthur slowly, slowly pulled back, then pushed in again, faster, again and again, until he was thrusting up into Merlin steadily.

Merlin braced himself, tried to get his legs further apart but his pants were still in the way, and felt like he was overflowing, scattering all over the floor for some other, hapless servant to sweep up later. Whining, he canted his hips and there, there it was, that spot—

“Harder,” he groaned, and got an answering groan in response; Arthur gripped his skinny hips hard, and Merlin felt something spurt inside him, something wet and stinging, that made the slowing thrusts of Arthur’s cock even easier.

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur swore, pressing his sweaty forehead against Merlin’s nape, “I’m sorry, I just, I’ve wanted this for so long—”

“You bastard,” Merlin said, “You can’t, please, please,” and then the world blurred, Arthur turning him and shoving him back-first onto his bed. Merlin hissed as the impact made pain flare through his body, but didn’t have time to complain because Arthur was jerking his boots and trousers off and shoving Merlin’s thighs open and up until there was enough room for him to fit in again, somehow still hard or already hard again, Merlin wasn’t sure. Merlin scrabbled at Arthur’s shoulders and grunted, twisting his legs around Arthur’s midsection. His arse was slippery already and he just wanted more, more of Arthur, at just that perfect angle, quick and brutal, slamming into him, filling him up so good and so much—

Merlin seized up through his orgasm, mouth open and silent, head pressed into the mattress so hard his shoulders were in the air.

When he came back to himself, he realized that Arthur was staring at him, had watched the whole process with rapt attention, and also that he still had his neckerchief on. He blushed furiously, all over again.

“Gods,” Arthur said, “I am so good. I never even touched your—”

“Shut up,” said Merlin.

“I am,” Arthur said, then let Merlin’s legs fall so he could lean close into Merlin’s chest and laugh, softly. “Merlin, I—”

“Still!” Blaise’s voice right then was more horrible than the most horrible thing Merlin could imagine, “Now that’s stamina! I definitely thought it’d be safe to come back by now.”

“Oh, hell,” Merlin said, and, regrettably, pushed at Arthur until he lifted off. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t stay here with Blaise looking on judging, watching. He had to end this, now, or he’d never get any peace and he’d never be able to have wonderful, wonderful sex again. “I need to, um,” he grabbed at his trousers and shirt, avoiding Arthur’s eyes, “go. And. Take care of something, okay?”

“O-okay,” Arthur said, sounding entirely unlike himself. “I’ll—you’ll come back later?”

Merlin smiled at him from the doorway. “I will.”

*

“That was rude,” Blaise said, as Merlin—carefully—picked his way down into the tombs again. “You realize he was about to confess his love to you, right?”

Merlin walked right into a large, stand-alone coffin, and said, “What?”

“The prince,” said Blaise, as if it were obvious, “was about to tell you he loved you. What did you think all that was about?”

“I—“ Merlin rubbed at his scraped elbow, mind whirling, “I don’t know—But that can’t be—I mean, it’s Arthur, he can’t—”

“Well, it’s clear that he can, and does, and you just walked away and probably broke his heart,” Blaise said. “Did you see his face?”

“No, I—I didn’t really—”

“It was obvious.”

“No,” Merlin shook his head. Blaise was just messing with him again, trying to unsettle him. Arthur couldn’t love him; Arthur was—was beautiful and strong and noble and brave, he was destined to fall in love with an equally beautiful, strong, noble, brave woman, no matter how much he liked tupping men. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m—”

“Let’s just do this, all right?” Merlin said, putting it out of his mind.

“Fine,” huffed Blaise, “but I’m not wrong.”

They reached Blaise’s gravesite then, and Merlin narrowed his eyes at the small, oddly colored patch of stone left on the ceiling where he’d pulled down some stupid fungus over a week ago. It had been a crazy week—mysterious voices, ghosts, whippings, sex with Arthur—and finally it would be over. This time was the right time. He knew it in his bones.

Merlin took a deep breath, and cast about for his magic. After a moment, he felt it unfurl inside him, happy and rising quickly; it wanted to be used.

“Merlin,” Blaise said abruptly, “I’ll miss you.”

Merlin smiled a little, and nodded, because it had been crazy, but it had also been amazing, and he doubted that he’d ever meet anyone quite like Blaise again. “I’ll miss you too,” he said.

“We’ll meet again,” Blaise said. “Everyone dies eventually.”

Merlin laughed. “Hopefully not for a long, long while, then.”

“Goodbye, Merlin.”

“Goodbye, Blaise,” he said, and raised his hand.

Magic rushed from him like a dog on the hunt, eager and straining for the freedom to cover everything. Merlin saw when it found Blaise—it illuminated his ghostly figure for a moment, briefly and brightly, smiling, before it tumbled him back into the afterlife, and he was gone.

*

Merlin walked back up to Arthur’s room in a silence he found odd. He supposed he had gotten used to Blaise’s constant, inane chatter, and would have to readjust himself to the sense of being fully alone. He relished it and regretted it simultaneously; it gave him a lot of room for thought.

Arthur was back in his chair when Merlin quietly let himself in, picking at his cold dinner. He glanced up, but quickly returned his attention to the meal.

Merlin shoved the dish out of the way and slid into its place, propping his feet on either side of Arthur’s legs and pulling the spoon from Arthur’s fingers as he leaned down to kiss Arthur’s open mouth.

Arthur kissed back helplessly.

“I love you,” Arthur said when Merlin pulled back, and then managed to look shocked, humiliated, wary, and hopeful all at once.

Something that felt like magic but wasn’t filled Merlin’s chest until it burst out into a smile on his face, probably the biggest, stupidest smile he’d ever worn. “I love you, too,” he said, and knew it was true.

Thank you, Blaise, Merlin thought as Arthur kissed him like they had nothing else to do in the world, ever. Thank you.

* * *

  
END


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